Page 87 of A Thief Among Fae

Desmond surprises me by leading us into his room. I glance around, hoping there’s an insight into his Gift or his past or. . . I don’t know why I care, and his room is disappointingly plain. There’s a stack of books on the table and a bow hung on the wall. His sword is still in the sheath against his hip, and I get the feeling he doesn’t travel without it.

Nothing inside explains why Auri locks his room at night.

“Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair for me.

I don’t. Instead, I shove it back under the table. The last thing I want to do is get comfortable. Not when he’s about to irritate the hell out of me. “So what’s first?” I ask him. “Telling me that you were right? Or threatening to kick my ass if I disobey orders again?”

“I won’t need to kick your ass again if you’ll listen for once,” he rebukes me. “Do you know what fear is? Maybe you should try having some of it, or did you not learn your lesson when your sister was poisoned?”

My mouth drops. Gods, the reminder of what happened with Evie scathes deeper than my wound. I glower at him. “Refusing to be afraid is how I survived the barrows and fed my family.”

He scoffs. “And it’s why you never think through the consequences of your actions.”

“Stop it,” I snap. I hate that he can decipher me after only what? Two weeks? “I know you’re pissed off, but that’s no reason to⁠—”

He steps so close I see a dangerous glint in his hazel eyes, knife-sharp and unforgiving. The room suddenly feels too small. His voice lowers into a lethal calm as he says, “If you think this is pissed off, you’re less astute than I thought. When I’m angry, people run, Cynthia. You’d run.”

I stumble back, my thigh bumping into his bedframe. “I wouldn’t,” I argue, even though the barely restrained rancor through the bond makes me think of the Gift he won’t speak of, the one that the world fears. I raise my chin to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t face for my family, not even you. You’re not as scary as you think you are.”

He blinks, dumbstruck, before he masks it with a scowl. “And why is that?”

“Because you tipped a servant in gold. You slept in a chair so I’d have the bed. You’re concerned for Finnian.”

“But that’s⁠—”

I thrust out my arm, showing him the inked crescent. “Then what about this? What’s the real reason you made the vow with me? If I betrayed you, you could kill me in a heartbeat.”

Desmond crosses his arms. “You said could.”

“Because you wouldn’t. For some reason, you care about me. We both know it.”

“Of course I care!” he snaps, his jaw tensing. “Despite what the world thinks, I don’t run around murdering whomever I please. I don’t crave violence. All I want is—” He falters, clears his throat, and closes his eyes.

“Is what?” I press.

He doesn’t move away. Finally, he opens his beautiful hazel eyes, the green as warm as a midsummer forest. Then he reaches out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. Whatever I planned to ask next, the words die in my throat.

I stand so very still as he leans toward me. My breath catches as his lashes flutter closed, the aroma of leather and peppermint caressing me as his forehead presses against mine. Our noses bump, and then he stills.

“You’re hurt,” he softly says. I can feel his concern as he pulls away.

“It’s nothing.”

“Where is it?” he demands, the gentleness gone.

Hesitating, I lean away from him. My pulse skitters. What was he about to do? What would I have done, had he tried to kiss me after rejecting me last night? That thought terrifies me the most.

“I didn’t want to bother Maeve when Finnian is hurt.”

“That’s not how a team works,” he lectures me. “Will you let me help?”

Oh gods, when I force myself to look at him, I’m terrified by what I see. It’s. . . the subtle furrow of his brows. The softness of his mouth as his front teeth graze his bottom lip in worry. The way his callused hand extends to hold mine as if without a thought.

I’m so stunned that I nod. Maybe I shouldn’t be. He tore his cloak to bandage my shoulder, even though we were strangers then. How can a man who is so kind be convinced that he’s a monster?

Desmond pulls out the chair again, but I shake my head. “It’s my back. And my head.”

His eyes widen. I stare at the chiseled lines of his jaw, the restrained stillness of his body, until he reaches out, his fingertips featherlight against my forehead. “Here?” he asks me.